How Sweet the Nightingale Sings
by thundercow
Summary: The bird flew into a seashore cage. Then it screamed and it cried with smothered rage. — Kyoko, 27K.


**characters/pairings** – Kyoko, Tsuna/Kyoko  
**prompt **– (for khrfest) Tsuna/Kyoko - the truth; "You make me bleed every time."  
**notes** – The Kyoko in this fic feels different, and I can't help but wonder if this works, tell me your opinion?

* * *

**How Sweet the Nightingale Sings **

She can never boast a box weapon, even as an adult – she likes to think it is because she has no need for one, or that her resolve is a wisp of flame in comparison to the tenth generation of Vongola. She acknowledges that this probably isn't even close to the truth and accepts it modestly. It is almost like a transparent illusion; all falsities and insecurities breaking through her pearly teeth and his thick gloves. She figures that that is why her dying will flame is not that of the Mist; neither is his.

Instead, Reborn teaches her how to grip a gun for the sake of formalities – because no mafia wife is supposed to be so naive about such trivial matters. She is apprehensive for the entirety of the lesson, because a gun is something that people use to hurt other people; it is cold and heavy in her tiny palm. She listens vacantly as the baby tutors her on aiming at the second pressure. And she thinks to herself that she would probably perform better if her husband had been her teacher.

During the first yawns of the sun, she finds her finger trailing the muscles along his bare arm, wishing that Chrome would teach her about illusions; then she would be able to guide them all into a realm that would never involve bloodshed and dead bodies and frightening babies. Or if he had the property of Mist, he could fool the world about his burden of a claim and whisk her away to a brighter place, anywhere but here. Somewhere hopefully beyond the truth that latched them down.

She settles with the flame of the Sun. The yellow flame is not entrancing or empowering to her. It pales and falters in comparison to the majestic fire in the sky of his eyes. And she hardly uses her resolve, apparently she doesn't need to. At first she assumes she doesn't know how, because she is not born to fight and defend – she can't quite decide what she is born for, actually.

If there are dormant flames within her, they should remain dormant, for there are bodyguards and surveillance cameras so tightly spun around her that she needn't worry about escaping and attacking. The problem is that she feels anything but safe, and finds it hard to even breathe without their notice and account.

So she sings instead; cooking in a pristine kitchen with a spotless sink and no dirty dishes. It does not feel like home. No matter how messy she leaves it, by the next morning it reverts back to a perfect state, hideously neat and ordered; the air is dense with the fact that this is not a house that they own, but a mansion under the Vongola crest. She pretends that this is not the case, that the people bustling are merely ambitious maids and servants as they claim themselves to be – not trained assassins that know how to spread bed sheets; or scheming femme fatales that she tries her hardest to keep her husband away from.

They are the least of her worries, but it has always been hard to digest this fact.

* * *

The days she spends teaching Lambo and I-pin are the brightest, they make her feel carefree and useful, and she ponders about the possibility of having a child of her own. But the empty bed and tired eyes at night do nothing to encourage her. And after awhile, even the young duo have to skip weekly sessions in light of more important affairs. She doesn't complain, she simply pats their teenage heads and sends them off with good-lucks and be-carefuls.

She cups her hands and wonders why they do not bother to tell her where they are going. It is visibly disheartening that even two sprightly teenagers are assuming that they have to keep the truth from hurting her. But she has to keep the grin tacked on her face, if only to give everyone strength and make them feel in control.

It is boring and lonely in the home – no, mansion – when everyone is out attending meetings at opposing corners of the world, signing agreements with potential acquaintances; amongst other things she tries not to think about.

Hence, she is bored and lonely every day.

* * *

She figures out that she has a Sun flame the first day she wanders into her brother's room, searching for his opinion about a dish that she doesn't end up cooking. When she steps through the open doorway and finds his room predictably empty and uncharacteristically quiet, she remembers that he had promised to go and meet Hana for an important matter. She takes the chance to neaten up the room, fluff the pillows and slide her fingers along the messy desk. As she rearranges the files suffocated with documents and places the pens back into their holder, she finds a beautiful little ring underneath all the clutter.

It is small and simple, a minute auburn orb that matches the colour of her hair and a thick body that adds on an air of masculinity. She rolls it around on her palm and wonders what it is doing in his room. It takes her just a moment to slot the it on her left index finger, right above her wedding ring. She tries to admire it, but it is too big and too bulky for her thin hands. Only then do her eyes land on the box weapon perched on the shelf of the desk, intricate design and the Vongola insignia imprinted carefully onto its sides. She realises that this is one of her brother's old weapon rings, and that she shouldn't be doing this because she is not meant to use box weapons; and she can't, since her resolve is not strong.

But her hand reaches out to grasp the cubic weapon, remembering that its occupant is a kind creature with mighty eyes, and it had large ears – meant for listening.

The ring flickers abruptly, before lighting itself a brilliant orange, much to her surprise. She only pauses for five seconds to remember the stance she has seen too many times.

She weighs the box in her right palm and poises her ringed hand near its opening, eyes unsure and shoulders stiff. She takes a deep breath and feels the sensation of power rush through her veins as she pushes the jewel into the opening and gasps to herself. The feeling is astounding, it makes her feel a moment of strength, it makes her believe in herself. But the sensation ebbs away once the box animal materialises, sitting on its haunches and perking those ears, regarding her with inquiring golden eyes.

She can't help but smile at its composure. She seats herself down next to the kangaroo and begins to talk: about simple things like the weather, and if it feels lonely in the box, about deeper questions like whether it likes her cooking, or if it understands how she feels; about chained wishes that almost make her cry.

* * *

"You know this isn't safe, Kyoko." Her brother takes the box and recalls a rather disappointed kangaroo into its casing, gently slipping the ring from her finger as well.

She sighs softly with a twenty-four year old throat, but gazes up to her brother and nods her head; as if on auto-pilot.

* * *

She wishes many times to talk to the kangaroo again, but she never does anything about it. Her thoughts about her husband and what he tells her – or doesn't – become bottled up inside her thinning frame. One cloudless night when she lies in the king-sized bed alone, she discovers that the best metaphor would be that she is collecting little starry lies in a fragile glass bottle.

But when he lifts the covers and joins her in the earliest hours of the morning, she forgets about the deceit and dutifully recalls the story of emotions she has painted just yesterday, and the day before that. She wears the emotions on the sleeves of her nightgown and coaxes a relieved smile on her face. She sighs dreamily as he coils his arms around her waist, and tries to imagine that what she pretends to feel now – safe, assured, comforted – is, in fact, a reality.

The only emotions that are not part of her facade are tempering grief and damnable love.

* * *

She doesn't know why, but on his off days, she starts spending less and less time with him. Briskly and believably, she states that she has a prior engagement to Haru, or that Hana needs help with a non-existent crisis. She sees the shy disappointment on his face, and the coveted innocence left in his eyes squeezes her heart. Her heels click softly as she steps up to him, pressing her lips to his cheek in muted goodbye.

She smiles encouragingly, because it is expected of her.

She lets him caress the back of her neck and kiss her on the mouth for just a few more seconds before leaving.

If absence makes the heart grow fonder – this is for the best.

* * *

Yamamoto meets her on her in the corridor of her study. He leans casually against the wall and suggests that she probably shouldn't be lying to her husband. She grins widely, ready to ask him what in the world he is talking about – but then she glimpses his eyes. Her voice stops in her throat, and her smile disappears. She slowly nods and lowers her gaze to the carpet lining the floor, she bites her lip and the words fumble on her tongue, she doesn't know how to get him to understand.

The swordsman whispers into her ear, informing her about a solution to the problem.

She looks up into his kinder eyes; a real smile blossoms on her face.

* * *

The air in the car is stuffy, but she can't find it in herself to ask the chauffeur to roll down the windows. He might already be frustrated that they have made two wrong turns and are now wheeling down an empty street because of her wrong directions. She silently leans into the cushion of the back seat and wrings her hands together, seeing houses she doesn't remember on this lane in Nanimori and shops whose names don't mean anything to her; it is unsettling that she can't remember where Hana or Haru's houses are anymore.

* * *

Haru and Hana are ecstatic about her arrival. They coo and lace their fingers with hers as they pull her into the house, they exclaim about how different she looks and how she has become more beautiful with her long hair skirting behind. They ask if the five hour drive down has tired her and they ask about the luxurious lifestyle she leads. Hana is wearing new earrings, and Haru has lipstick on; both of them have cut their hair short. It takes her a long time to get used to this.

The girls are the same as always, lively and calm; hysterical and composed.

She feels like she's the only one that's changed. She can see it in their eyes.

She smiles sweetly and answers all their inquiries. Before she knows it, it is rather late and she has to return or else Gokudera will consider the probability that she has been taken hostage. The three of them laugh over the unfathomable explanation, but then their giggles subside until only she is the one left laughing at herself, and an awkward silence permeates the room. She gets no chance to share the burden agitating her heart because Haru and Hana have been prattling on and on in their naively prosperous world.

As she waves and gets into the limousine parked outside, she breathes a sigh of something – depression or relief, she can barely tell the two apart now.

* * *

She clutches the sealed letter in both her hands, resting them over the base of her neck as she approaches the door at the end of the corridor. There is a genuine smile on her face, and there is a spark of energy in her step that she sorely misses – today will be the day she will release her anxieties. He will understand her, she knows he will. She drifts past oil paintings and marble busts of Italians she hasn't the faintest clue about, and she doesn't know why she has never asked for enlightenment regarding their histories. Perhaps, secretly, she doesn't exactly care.

She knocks when she reaches his office, knuckles brushing indifferently against the wooden carvings that drill out a proud 'X' on the surface of the towering door. When there is no reply, she decides that he must be too exhausted to answer it for himself, so she turns the knob and invites herself into his lair.

"I've something for you to re– "

A sharp pain explodes on the side of her head, and it flees instantaneously with the light in her eyes.

The last thing she realises before she plunges into darkness is that he is wearing muddy boots and the room reeks of cigarette smoke – and that her words will never reach him now, for the letter escapes her open hand and retreats from her blurring sight. A familiar feeling chokes her heart –

it tastes like resignation.

* * *

The first thing she asks herself is not 'what am I doing here in a warehouse' or 'is this real'.

Somehow, a part of her has always been anticipating for this to happen.

The first thought that really comes to mind is why she does not have a box weapon. The second thing she reminds herself is that thankfully, she borrowed a revolver from a tolerant Hibari two weeks ago, and it is tucked snugly into the pocket of her flowing dress. But as her eyes dart the vicinity in an attempt of scrutiny, she realises that her eyes are out of focus and that her head seems to revolve on her neck. She makes out a man in brown boots looming up to her, and she feels his pull and he grabs the neckline of her floral dress. His wrist grazes her chest as he hoists her up by the cloth so that his face is too close a proximity to hers.

"Good evening, princess."

He has horrid breath, the cigarette stench lingering around him thrice as strong as Gokudera's, even on the wildest of nights. Her head does not stop spinning, but she clings to her senses and her left hand cautiously inches up along her thigh.

His face is rugged and worn, and his eyes are small and beady, there is a glint of malice and amusement dancing in the black of his eyes.

"Do you think he'll come? You think he'll abandon his current mission to come and save your sorry little ass?"

"W-What mission?" Her focus changes course quickly as her hand stills, and the fact that she is scared senseless contributes to the air of surprise and the boldness of her words. She can't get possibly more afraid than this, and he... he hadn't mentioned to her that he would be out on another mission yesterday night.

Perhaps the concussion is the reason for her lapse in memory. He couldn't possibly have left her out of the loop, not again.

"He didn't tell you, did he?" the villain grunts wryly, his voice creeping down her spine.

She can't find it in herself to lie, or to accept the truth.

"It's because you're a weak little bitch," the distorted face laughs.

His voice burns itself into the back of her throbbing head. She trembles uncontrollably, the ground is cold and solid underneath her shivering fingertips and her eyes are wide, mouth thick with the taste of fear and the dryness of revelation. She has an inexplicable need to run, but they've bound her ankles together with rope and her legs have abandoned her to numbness.

"My boss held an acquaintance of his captive; a sexy little doll with the prettiest eyes and blonde hair."

Blood pulses in her veins, she feels her capillaries screaming under her skin.

"And he sent me here to loot the place while everyone went out to save the damsel. You were basically just a little bonus."

She swallows and holds back the tears just barely; it is the first time she realises that she'd rather be called a bitch.

"You think he'll come here to take care of his plain wife when he's got a better woman to save?" he scoffs, drops of saliva springing from his mouth and landing on her cheeks, and that is the last straw her nerves can sustain. Her hand leaps from her pocket and she brandishes the heaviness of the gun, much to the alarm of the unarmed captor who still has his hand curled tightly on her neckline.

On pure instinct alone, out of anger or frustration, something unpleasant – _determination_ is a flowery substitute for these emotions, resignation merely a catalyst – she throws her hands into the air, and aims blindly with the firearm and her ring finger jumps onto the trigger in that euphoric moment. The metal bullet launches itself from the chamber in perfect timing with the first scream she sends rattling out her throat. The gun is hot and light, mirroring the dizziness attacking her head.

Her first tears bleed in unison with the dark blood that stains the Italian floorboards.

* * *

She continues firing haphazardly at the winded man as he scrambles and the other men in the room arm themselves at an inhumane pace. She watches the gruesome man, with blood pooling at his left shoulder sleeve, as he pulls out a revolver and begins to aim for the middle of her forehead.

The door bursts open and what seems to be a kangaroo bounds through the entrance, golden eyes flitting to her as her brother thunders into the room. She fiercely erases the tears from her eyes, witnessing a face that is dark and deadly with those knotted eyebrows and that clenched jaw. His eyes are sharp and dangerous and she almost does not recognise him as he throws vigorous punches at the two closest to the dismantled door, effectively cracking their necks. Another five people storm the arena with brutal force, and they all look vaguely familiar beyond her foggy vision.

The gun fumbles in the villain's red hands and she moves to snatch the firearm from him – but she never gets the chance. His plated shoe rises up and collides with her arms, the resulting pain is immeasurable, but she does not scream. Within the next moment, a blur of fire knocks the gun out of those vile hands, grips his head and forces him onto the floor. His face smashes unglamorously against the thick floorboards of the warehouse, the high yell he screeches out mixing in with the others that are a sudden cacophony in the room. Hibari's pistol slips through her hands and clatters onto the floor at her feet.

"Is this your blood?" The man is by her side in a flash with an arm around her shoulders and elegantly powerful eyes. She recognizes the voice and the cloak, the feeling of his hands gracing her skin.

She stares contemplatively at the blood touching her bare knees and dotting her dress.

"No, no, no," she mumbles faintly.

"Are you alright?" he asks with urgency, his hands now on her wrists and his eyes checking her body for any visible wounds.

He'll never find the deepest injury no matter how desperately he looks; her heart just isn't that easy to see.

There are those eyes, those liars, sinners, harbingers of sorrow that she attempts to distance herself from – but the worry and the concern is so deeply etched in his gaze that it draws her in; she almost considers pulling the trigger again. Her head continues to spin and her heart continues to beat. The only thing she knows for sure is that it is impossible for her not to reciprocate his lies and his fake stories and this demented love; she is in too deep and her heart is stubborn, as always.

She only hopes, as she has been all along, that she can get rid of the hurt he brutally inflicts on her (he does so unintentionally, and that is the most damaging part).

Her fingers curl around the revolver.

He embraces her before she can position the gun, encasing her in his arms; and she loses the strength in her bruised arms to return this affection. She doesn't have the resolve to deny this romance. Her fingernails dig into the skin of her palms and her thumb presses onto the sharp diamond of her ring. Under her red skin, and the hazy lights, it seems to glow yellow. When the gun in her hand digs into his strong ribs as she clutches the sides of his black blazer, she doesn't fire no matter how much her index finger twitches.

"Are you alright?" Tsuna repeats desperately, his tone almost commanding.

"I don't know," Sawada Kyoko staggers through another wash of wounded tears.

"... I really don't know."


End file.
